


Evolution: A Cyberpunk Solavellan

by CommonEvilMastermind



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Shadowrun Fusion, Dorks, F/M, Fake Marriage, Future Dystopia, engineer lavellan, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5965411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonEvilMastermind/pseuds/CommonEvilMastermind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>EDIT 11/13/16: This fic is being rebooted and will not be continued as written. Please read at your own risk!</p><p>It was supposed to be a simple spy mission. Instead, Ellara Lavellan now has:</p><p>1. A hole in the sky<br/>2. A cult<br/>3. Every megacorp from FerelDen to Vinter on her tail<br/>4. A too-attractive-for-his-own-good consultant who might be able to stop her hand from killing her, maybe?</p><p>And, worst of all? She's started to dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Solas ran._

_He ran, and a world came crashing down behind him._

_Bolting down the street, thin boots on cracked pavement, dodging the shadows that gaped and pointed and cried. All the lights had gone out, save one – a sickly green tear, cracking and reaching, gobbling up the sky._

_A riot, up ahead – screams and shouts and broken glass. He turned down an alley, picked up speed. No direction mattered but away, get away, far enough to gather what resources he had-_

_but the resources he had were gone, lost like the rest when the power went out. This stupid world and its dependence on energy, the smoke and the neon and the utter depravity._

_It was unraveling into the hands of a madman, and Solas was almost glad._

_In another life he might have stayed. Run towards the Breach instead of away from it. One last stand before the end. In another life, where he had even the smallest spark of power –_

_He reached, a reflex like breathing even now, after years. Plunged his mind into the vortex of the Veil, his dread beloved child, grown beyond imagination as he slept. A stinging, chaotic maelstrom. Impenetrable._

_In another life he had awakened before it was too late, when he could still feel the Fade sliding along his skin. In another life he could have done something._

_But Solas had awoken to a world without sky, where forests grew from smoke and concrete._

_The dreamer had come to a world without dreams._

_And so he ran._


	2. Hello

“HEY!” she bellowed into his ear. “YOU SOLAS?”

He turned. Ellara decided he was Solas. Or if he wasn’t, he was getting recruited anyways. He was absolutely stunning, like a vid star had gotten dropped into the delirium of the Rest’s main dance floor.

“I AM,” he yelled back. The Aavar dropped the bass. Concrete thrummed under their feet.

“COME ON.” She tugged his sleeve and wove her way through the mass of drunks, dancers, and devotees of the Herald. Despite her care, someone still managed to spill their glass of Beer down her back. Nice. And then she broke through the throng to discover she had lost her new companion somewhere in the mob.

A curse, a shake of her head, and she turned, unapologetically elbowing a qunari in the stomach to make room. It had been hard enough finding him the first time. But at least he was tall, for an elf, and distinguishable by being A. fucking gorgeous and B. no fake green Herald-light on his hand. The crowd was a wave of emerald palms, dancing and screaming as if the world was coming to an end.

Which, well. You know.

She found him in the middle of a tight knot of trouble. “YOU’RE FUCKING WRONG” a blue was screaming, over and over, fisting the tall elf’s shirt. Solas had not killed him. His face implied it was only a matter of time.

Ellara kicked the brawny human in the balls without preamble. He dropped the elf and sank to the sticky floor.

“Don’t break him,” she snarled. The pounding of the music was keeping time with her headache. The attacker whimpered, his bright-blue pupils blown wide. “Stupid fucking lyrium-“ Solas was looking at her, eyebrow raised. She grabbed his hand and pulled. “Come on.”

His hand was nice. Long, strong fingers wrapped around her palm – real and warm, no trace of wires or cybernetic implants. No thrice-damned emerald glow. They cleared the main mob, but the hall was pretty chaotic. Lights flashing. Mobs of pilgrims.

Better hang on to him, just in case.

She towed him up the winding spiral staircase and ran into a wall of muscle. “Scooch, Bull.”

The jerk just smirked at her, eye glinting in the shadow, and wiggled his palm. A non-verbal joke: _Are you really the Herald? Show me your palm._ Ellara stepped on his foot, hard. The big lout patted her on the head and let them pass, grinning with all his teeth. Fucker.

Bull’s post was in front of a large steel door that said in loud, rude neon EMPLOYEES ONLY. She had to let go of Solas’ hand in order to haul the damn thing open – it protested in wailing descant to the dance floor.

The back rooms of the Herald’s Rest were twisty, labyrinthine tunnels – the place had never been meant to host a hoard. It had been originally designed by a cult, but a different sort of cult. A secret death-in-the-shadows, dragon-worshipping cult. Not an end-of-the-world, let’s-throw-a-rave type cult. Their conference room – Cullen called it a War Room but nobody listened to Cullen when he said that sort of thing – was nearly impossible to find if you didn’t know the way. Which was totally not an excuse to hold Solas’ hand again, so she didn’t. But she thought about it.

Away from the chaos, the stupid mark made its displeasure known, spitting shards of pain up her arm and down her spine. Bet the pilgrim’s cybernetic copies didn’t do _that._ Hers wasn’t even strong enough to work as a damn flashlight half of the time. What was the use of having a shard of chaos in your palm if it couldn’t light the way through your cultist-designed labyrinth? Honestly.

Ellara got lost only once getting to the War Room (they weren’t going to call it that, it wasn’t a war), which was a distinct improvement from that morning. The tunnels were chipped concrete, painted a sad, faded black and humming harsh fluorescent lights at intervals. By the time she hauled her guest through the red steel door that led to the not-the-War-Room, they could hardly hear the roar of the main room. Still, she kicked the dimmer until it coughed into life and spat up a sonic-block that encased them in an invisible sphere of silence.

A couple of lines smoothed in his brow. Because he totally needed to be more handsome.

“So.” Ellara hopped up on the cracked vid-table, folding her feet underneath her. “You’re Solas.”

“I am.” He stood in parade-rest, hands tucked behind his back, studying her with open curiosity. “And you are the Herald of Andraste.”

“Ugh.” She scowled, then yelled over his shoulder at the door. “I don’t want him after all!”

“You cannot discount people simply because they believe your divinity,” Cassandra sighed, coming in behind them.

“Wanna bet?” Ellara muttered crossly. She had such hopes for this one.

“I was referring to the title, not any theological belief,” Solas said mildly. “May I?”

Startled, she gave him her marked palm without protest. His examination was perfectly clinical, thumb sliding over the emerald not-a-gap where her palm used to be. His hands were warm, and some jagged knots in her muscles loosened. “Fascinating,” he breathed. This close, his eyes were stormy and gray.

She swallowed. Cassandra snorted. Solas pulled away.

“So,” she rubbed her palm and hopped off the vid-table. Kicked one of the battered folding chairs into submission and sank into it. “You want to join the Inquisition.”

“We require him to join the Inquisition,” Cassandra reminded her, taking her own seat and nodding Solas to a third. “He is the only known expert with practical experience in thaumaturgic – “

“Yes, yes,” Ellara glared at him. “You know what this thing is?”

 “I believe so.” He shifted in his seat. “It appears to be a locus of power that has integrated into your personal energy in a way that should not be possible. Tell me, what symptoms are you experiencing? Any pain?”

“Some.” Lots.

“Abrupt changes in thought pattern or mood? Flashes of anger?”

“NO.” Cassandra kicked her under the table. “Maybe.”

“Uncontrollable discharges of light?”

“Yes.”

He took a breath. “Are you experiencing any audio or visual hallucinations when you sleep?”

Cassandra snorted. “Trulyf? Be serious, this is not some ancient tale for –“

“Yes,” Ellara told her fingernails. The table got very quiet. When she looked up at him, there was something in his eyes that she couldn’t seem to name.

“You have been dreaming?” Cassandra said incredulously.

“No!” She stood up so abruptly that her chair fell over. “I’m not – there’s a reason for this! An actual reason! And we’re going to figure it out and fix the fucking sky and, and it’s not that I’m the Herald of Andraste. And I’m not fucking _dreaming._ There’s an actual, real-life reason that all of this shit is happening, okay?”

“Of course,” Solas said with measured professionalism. His face had set into a polite mask. It was not an improvement. “And I am pleased to provide you with assistance.”

She started to bite back, then took a second look. His fingers trembled slightly on the table. His eyes were dark circles, sunken too deep into his head. Clothes worn, but clean. Unassuming. No cyber-tech, no visible implants. The man was a puzzle – strung out, on edge, desperately weary.

For a moment it felt like looking into a mirror.

“Okay,” Ellara said, unaware she had been deciding. “You’re in.”

He blinked. “I was expecting more stringent security measures before admittance.”

“You passed ‘em. He’s in, start the coffee, come say hi.” This was directed towards the back wall, where a shadow detached itself with a small tisk of annoyance.

"Subtlety is not your strong suite," it said.

"We can only have so many people around her who can specialize in being really fucking creepy," Ellara told it wryly. The shadow rippled as its cloaking dropped, resolving into a hooded woman with cold eyes. "This is Leliana," Ellara introduced. "She's good at being really fucking creepy."

“Someone must be looking out for your personal security,” Leliana responded, the argument route by now. The spy crossed to a small table in the corner that barely supported an ancient old coffee maker.

“Too many someones,” Ellara muttered. “You two and Cullen and Bull and –“

“You have many enemies,” Cassandra reminded her. “It is just as well you have many protectors.”

“I have a damn babysitting squad.”

Leliana brought four chipped mugs over to the table. The coffee was thick and black and bitter and perfect. Solas examined his suspiciously.

“It’s a mess, here,” she said, watching him. “We’re probably going to all die soon anyways, or get thrown into the deepest, darkest hell the megacorps can find. There’s still a big fucking hole in the sky, and apparently we’re the only ones who can fix it. We’re also the only ones getting blamed. Are you sure you want in?”

“Yes,” Solas said. Instantly. Points to him. He took a sip of his coffee and nearly spit it out again. “What are your plans regarding the Breach?”

“The Breach?”

“The ‘big fucking hole in the sky.’ “His voice was rich and rough, the profanity falling from it like dark honey. She swallowed, pasted on a grin.

“Step one, save the world. Step two, don’t die,” she shrugged. “Simple as that.”

“Some of us would not mind accomplishing both goals,” Cassandra said wryly.

“I find it interesting that you offered to help us,” Leliana said, raising an eyebrow over her cup. “We are a quasi-legal group at best, responsible for the largest unnatural disaster in the past century.”

“Allegedly responsible,” Ellara and Cassandra said simultaneously.

“Allegedly responsible,” Leliana agreed. “Our enemies are unknown, all the major corporations are at our throats, and the few allies we have believe we will fail at any moment. Such a fate seems almost inevitable. So I must ask – why are you here?”

Her eyes were completely devoid of warmth. Solas raised an eyebrow.

“I am here because I am needed,” he said simply. “I know of no one else with my knowledge or skills. The Breach is an unparalleled phenomenon, and a dangerous one. I do not seek money, prestige, or fame. I wish only to study – and to help.”

 “Even though we’re probably all going to die a horrible death?” Ellara said, almost cheerfully. “Or get thrown into prison forever?”

Solas glanced at her. “I have been dodging the corporations for my entire life. They are not fond of me, but I do not fear them.”

“Then you are either very confident in your skills, or you are a fool,” Leliana mused over the rim of her mug. “Which is it?”

Solas looked at her and did not blink. Man had balls. “You clearly believe I am no fool. Or else I would not be standing here.”

“Or maybe we’re a company of fools,” Ellara suggested, gesturing expansively. She spilled her coffee in the process.

“That does seem the more likely possibility,” Cassandra muttered.

“Shush.” she stood up, wiped her hands on her jeans. Looked at Solas. “Welcome to the Inquisition. You ready to get to work?”

Solas’ mouth crooked up in a smile. “I look forward to it.”


	3. Cold

“She did say nineteen hundred,” Dorian sighed, leaning dramatically against a wall. “Stood up by our own leader.”

Iron Bull snorted, watching the mage pace. “In a hurry, Vint?”

“To get out of this hallway? Of course. When was the last time you bathed – do the Qunari know about bathing?”

“Smell better than you do.” The tiny corridor was too low for Iron Bull to stand fully, so he was sitting cross-legged on the cold cement.

Dorian sneered. “Perhaps because your tastes are so uncultured-“

"I'm here, I'm here, stop fussing." Ellara made her entrance by almost nearly falling through the ceiling when her pack got tangled in the ladder. "Ack damn - okay. We're here. Everyone ready to go?"

"Now that you've graced us with your company," Dorian bowed.

"Yes, fine, shush." She waved at him absently. "I've got our new IDs from Leliana. They're squeaky-clean, so let's try to keep them that way, okay? We want to use these more than once."

Dorian's eyebrows went up. "She got us new PINs?"

"No, dumbass, we're just going to be wandering around without any sort of identification whatsoever. Of course we have PINs. Wrist." Ellara held out a small gray cylinder, roughly the size of a tube of lipstick. Dorian offered his wrist and she pressed the device to the tiny bump that marked where his personal identification chip was set under his skin. Her device beeped.

"Good." Ellara scanned Dorian's PIN, checking that the data had switched correctly. "You are now Marcus Valerian, fashion designer employed by Orlais. Bull - " the qunari offered his wrist and was similarly treated. "You're Griffon, his bodyguard."

"Awesome," the qunari said.

"Solas." He held out his wrist, where the site of his implant was marked by a tiny white scar. Ellara didn’t comment, just held the scanner over his skin and scanned it with her comm. "Solas, you're - oh, hilarious." She rolled her eyes. "Very funny, Leliana!" she called back down the hallway.

"Get moving!" came the reply. "You'll miss your train!"

"What is so amusing?" Solas asked, rubbing his wrist absently.

"Leliana thinks she's being funny," Ellara grumbled, pressing the setter to her own chip. "Your name is Telan, and I'm Amerida. We're a married couple of coders specializing in power fluxuations. We're Ferelden, sent to scout the area. Dorian, you've got family in the Hinterlands and you're going to check on them because communications have been down."

"Yes, my loving dog-lord family," Dorian drawled. "What a horrible cover story."

"Well, anyone who looks deeper will find that Marcus is a mid-level dealer specializing in cram and blue dust and is under the protection of the Magisterium." Ellara swung her pack on her back and muttered slightly at the weight.

"Much better," Dorian agreed. "More realistic. And the two of you?"

"Scavengers." Ellara said. "Everybody ready? Let's go."

~

Early evening in Kirkwall wasn’t a bad time to move about. The district paused, took a breath, before heading into the full-scale mayhem that was the deep night.

It was a practiced dance for Ellara, steps foreign and familiar. Flip a credit to Old Sal, babbling fortunes under the blue neon. Nod – just once – to the little waif beside the soup cart. Ignore the fact that she has no eyes.

The city was endless, reaching over all the known world. Its trees were towers of iron and steel, its dirt the crumbling concrete. Some found it distasteful, here in the roots of the place – Dorian barely concealed the curl of his lip as they stepped around a puddle of someone in the street. Solas, inscrutable as ever, had an extra wrinkle in his brow. The Iron Bull was solid, though, immovable, pretending not to enjoy how the street dwellers gave him a wide berth.

The forest of rust and neon and crumbling stone wasn’t for everyone. Today, for her, it was close enough to home.

“You’re horribly cheerful,” Dorian pointed out as they made their way down the half-filled street.

“It’s good to be out,” she confessed. “Get some fresh air.” She drew in a breath to illustrate her point and ended up choking on noxious fumes as a dwarven motor gang sped by.

Solas snorted behind them. She bit back a smile.

“Kirkwall air not to your liking?” Ellara asked archly.

“Not at all,” Solas assured her. “I’ve always been fond of the acrid burn in my lungs.”

“What were you doing before you joined the Inquisition?”

“Wandering.” He shifted his pack. “I enjoy exploring the most distant and forgotten corners of the network. Such exploration requires a good deal of physical travel as well.”

“Places with better air purifiers?” she guessed.

“What leads you to say that?” He raised his eyebrow – a test, then.

“If you’d been around here, your lungs wouldn’t burn anymore. We tend to cough up that inner lining after a while.”

He snorted in agreement.

It was nice, walking together. He knew the steps of the street – not incredibly well, but well enough to get along without being mugged. The silence between them was almost a relaxing one, companionable.

Solas required very little effort to be comfortable around. She appreciated that.

“What was it that amused you?” he asked into her thoughts.

“Hmm?” She watched as an old dwarf knocked into Dorian and wobbled away, muttering curses. She met the dwarf’s gaze and held out her hand. He sighed and gave her Dorian’s wallet, which she tucked away for safekeeping.

Solas watched the whole exchange with a faint half-smirk. “Our new identifiers – you found them amusing.”

“Ah.” Ellara let out a breath. “Leliana has been trying to convince me that I would be the best leader for the Inquisition. The last Inquisitor, about a hundred billion years ago – his name was Ameridan. So I just happen to be Amerida, what a coincidence.”

“And Telan?”

Ellara ran a hand through her hair, adding to her disheveled look. “The stories say that Ameridan had a lover, Telana. She was supposed to be a Dreamer.”

“What’s a Dreamer?” Dorian asked, dropping back to join them. Bull served as an excellent battering ram as the crowds picked up. “Is that like a Hope-er or a Wisher? Someone who just wants things really, really badly?”

“I don’t know, it’s some sort of magic thing.” Ellara bit her lip thoughtfully. “The songs about it are all strange. You would go to sleep and see stuff? Get to travel places in your mind? I thought it was a reference to running the net, but the songs are much older.”

“Magic,” Dorian scoffed. “Just another word for the things our less-educated ancestors couldn’t explain. Like dragons?” He called forward to Bull. “Never existed! They were actually just dinosaur bones!”

“That’s what you think, Vint!” The Iron Bull grinned back.

“Anyways, there’s evidence that Ameridan and Telana actually lived, once upon a time. There are belt buckles or something.” Ellara glanced over to Solas – there was a muscle jumping in his jaw. “You okay?”

He straightened his face with obvious effort. “Of course.”

“Yuh-huh.” Ellara glanced around Bull – they were getting close to the subway station. “I hope it’s alright with you – our cover story and all.”

“What of it?” Solas said tightly.

“Mostly the bit where we’re married,” she reminded him. He blinked. “I know, I’m sorry if it’s weird, but couples attract the least attention when traveling and –“

“It is fine,” he said abruptly.

Sure it was. “Well, I figured it was my only chance to pretend at such a handsome husband,” she said, deadpan.

Something in his eyes glittered, but then they were going down the deep stairway into the subway station, neon and pink-orange street lights replaced with flickering fluorescent. Bull pressed his wrist – and his modified PIN chip – to the reader, and the turnstile let him through. Dorian followed with a grin.

Solas was next, but he swept to the side. “After you.” He put a hand on the small of her back. She made sure to step on his toes as she went by.

The subway was less eventful than usual, what with Iron Bull glowering at anyone who even looked at them sideways. She rescued Dorian’s things from pickpockets twice more, all without him noticing. The only thing of note was when a barefaced elf with long, ropey hair sidled up next to her. “Hey sweet thing,” the elf purred. Their hair sparked red and gold with fiber-optic extensions.

Ellara gave them a look and prepared to banter them away, when the other elf froze. They gave her a faint nod and disappeared like smoke, vanishing into the mass of the crowded train.

“What was that?” she murmured, utterly confused. Dorian snorted. Ellara looked up at Solas, who was standing next to her. The other elf was looking away absently, but there was a faint blush riding high on his cheeks.

Which, under the better light of the subway, were revealed to have freckles.

She didn’t bother to hide her grin. When the other passengers of the train shifted, she let herself be pressed further up against him. “Sorry,” she said, not apologetic in the slightest.

Dorian laughed until she wiggled around and kicked him in the shin.

~

They rode the subway through Redcliffe and around the shore of District Calenhad. It was 0300 before they finally disembarked – Ellara could tell the time when their car got an influx of exhausted men and women, streaked with rock-dust. Lyrium miners getting off the nightshift.

The subway speakers crackled illegibly overhead as the cars slowed. “This is our stop,” Ellara said, peeling herself away from Solas. It hadn’t been completely necessary to cuddle against him for the whole trip but hey. They were undercover.

And he could have always stepped away, but he hadn’t. Which was something.

They pulled themselves wearily out of the subway car and into the comparatively fresher air of the station.

“Where are we going to sleep?” Dorian yawned.

Ellara snorted. “That’s cute. We have to meet our contact first – grab a coffee, da’len, this is going to take a while.”

Dorian sighed, long-suffering, as they walked up the stairs out of the station. He made a bee-line for the nearest flickering neon sign that said COFFEE, ignoring the graffiti and crumbling drywall and hundred other signs that said BLUE DUST SOLD HERE.

She would honestly be impressed if the place had an actual coffee pot, much less the drink in question.

Leaving Dorian to Bull, Ellara started studying the area. The trick in places like this, at times like these, was to take up more space than usual. Look a little too big to deal with, but not big enough to make a decent target. It was easier when she was alone, honestly. Then she could just pretend to be insane and no one bothered her at all.

Not that she might have to pretend for much longer.

“What are you searching for?” Solas asked. Whatever had been going through the Hinterlands hadn’t left many structures intact, at least not in this neighborhood. Ellara walked, sweeping her gaze around in concentric circles.

“Here,” she said instead of an answer. There was a ruined shop, a brick building with only the door left standing. She stepped through it and hummed with pleasure. The far side of the shop was still upright, lit by a streetlight coming in through the broken wall.

It was a cacophony of color and shape, street tags mixed with murals, faces and letters tumbling out of the chipped paint. She trailed her fingers just over the surface of the wall, examining the figures. “This one.” The tag in question was a green oni, leering at a neighboring pack of illustrations. It clutched two swords that dripped with blood.

“How do you know?” Solas asked, baffled.

“His skin,” Ellara said simply. “This way.”

Solas peered closer, shining his comm light on the crude demon. Its belly was patterned oddly, a lacy lighter green over the deep emerald. As if someone had used an intricate piece of cloth as a stencil.

Ellara headed out of the shop. “Do you think Dorian survived his coffee run?”

“Only time will tell.” Solas extended a hand and helped her jump over a pile of debris.

She grinned at him. “Thank you, husband.”

“Anything for my lovely wife,” he smirked.

She nearly fell over her feet. “Sweet talker,” Ellara grumbled.

“Merely playing a part,” he assured her.

She would have sneered at him but Dorian returned, Bull trailing behind with additional drinks. “What kind of barbaric place is this? It’s as if they had never heard of a caffe macchiato before-“ Dorian took a sip of his drink and promptly spit it out. “Andraste’s mercy-“

“Stop making a scene,” Ellara scolded. Bull handed her a cheap Styrofoam cup, which she cradled to her chest, grateful for the warmth. Solas took his and looked at it skeptically.

“We’re heading south,” she informed them. “The area isn’t safe, so be on your guard. Don’t worry about patrols – we can act normal for now. Expect attacks from the shadows. I’ve got point, then Dorian, than Solas. Bull takes rear flank.”

“Where on earth did you learn all that?” Dorian said.

Ellara handed her coffee back to Bull and started yanking her hair into a tense, messy bun. “The graffiti on the walls. Two daggers – attacks from the shadows. No armor – no official patrols or defenses. Blood – people have been dying.”

Dorian blinked. Bull snorted with pleasure. Even Solas, quietly disposing of his drink, looked impressed.

“One other thing.” Ellara loosened her pistols in her holsters and stretched out the crink in her neck before re-accepting her coffee. “The oni was green.”

“And what, pray tell, does a green demon mean?” Dorian asked testily.

“I don’t know.” Ellara grinned, feeling feral in the dim light. “It’s not part of the code.”

Her companions looked at each other for a long moment. “You’re on point, you say?” Dorian said, lifting his chin.

“This way,” she gestured, downing her coffee and tossing the cup aside. “And turn your damn lights off, it’ll ruin your night vision.”

They turned down a crumbling alleyway into the dark. Soon the neon warmth of the station was just a murmur in the distance. Two blocks, and Ellara found another oni – brown, this time - sheltering in the lee of an old stairway. It was looking west.

“Bandits,” Ellara muttered darkly. They pressed on.

Something glinted in the darkness – their only warning before a gun barked twice. The bullets ping’d away into the distance. Dorian, startled, shot his rifle, reducing their attacker – whoever it had been – into a pile of fine, multi-colored ash.

Ellara poked at the mess with a toe. “Next time, leave some for me to ask questions?” she asked Dorian mildly.

“Ah, yes.” He fiddled with a knob on his rifle, altering its prismatic hue. “Remind me to ask you how to deflect bullets like that.”

“Just a simple barrier,” she shrugged.

“But the energy expenditure-“

“Hush,” Solas whispered. They fell silent.

“What is it?” Dorian hissed after a moment. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Neither do – wait.” Ellara focused. There was something, right on the edge of her senses. Something piercing – like the scream of stressed metal, buried under her skin. “What –“

“Run,” Solas said, his voice cracking. “Run. Run!” He grabbed her hand and yanked her forwards. She was only too happy to comply, but the sound, the screaming wouldn’t stop. Just got louder and louder in her head, screeching, tearing, freezing –

Something grabbed her leg and she fell with a shout. Ice tore through her veins, pinning her down but there was nothing there. How could you fight nothing? You couldn’t. She was panicking, but that was somewhere far away. For now she could just lay here, watch the tips of her fingers turn white, watch the marks of frost curl across her crabbed knuckles, twine into her palm.

Her palm –

The mark flared angrily, cracking and spitting. Ellara found herself very, very cold and very, very angry. She lunged forward towards something she couldn’t see and wrapped her marked hands around a ragged cloak filled with bones.

It screamed like metal again, the pain shooting straight into her spine. She swore, feeling the numbness creep up her fingers, and slammed the tattered rag-bag into the wall. Then again. And again. She beat it against the concrete over and over until the thing had stopped moving, stopped screaming, had been reduced to shards of dry bone and scraps of ragged cloth.

Her head throbbed. Her feet ached. Her throat felt raw – had she been screaming?

But she could not feel her hands.

She tipped, falling forwards, and was caught. Someone was cursing softly in a language she did not know. She knelt on the ground, shaking.

She could not feel her _hands._

They were folded into tight, crabbed fists, unable to release the last scraps of the rag-bag’s clothing. Bone white, blue-purple at the tips. Frostbite? It couldn’t be frostbite, not this quickly, not this bad, not her hands. She had only seen frostbite like this once before, Ira’s little girl, she had lost the whole foot –

She was going to lose her hands.

Ellara rocked softly. She was so, so cold – she was going to lose her hands. Lose her hands, lose the mark, lose the power for the Inquisition, all her fault, all those people, her people, alone in the cold and dark, not her hands, _not her hands_ -

Someone far away was barking orders and she was moving. It didn’t matter where. She curled up, pressed her hands to her face, feeling cold, dead skin, sank down into the black.

They wouldn’t leave her alone.

She was tossed about, set down, warm air on cold skin. Someone was cursing at her, softly and angrily, half-remembered words that she hadn’t heard in too long. Ellara opened her eyes.

She was in – a tent? Soft fabric walls, yellow light streaming through. Propped up against someone, hard plank of muscle, gray arms wrapped around her torso.

Bull. She was leaning against Bull. And Solas knelt in front of them, drawn and tense, ghosting his pale fingers over her dead hands.

Light moved and Dorian was there in front of them. He was holding a bowl of water, placed it on the floor. Solas said something and he nodded, left the tent.

Then the elf lowered her white fists into the water.

It felt like nothing.

Solas swirled the liquid around the basin, keeping a current moving across her skin. Was the water warm? Cold? He seemed displeased, barking after Dorian, getting a distant response. His eyes snapped, a storm watching over two dead hands in a chipped yellow bowl. Their intensity made her shiver, made Bull growl with displeasure. Solas’ mouth tightened and he focused on the water, trying to keep it moving.

The mark flared, angry and full of pain, making her shout. She flailed, startling them all, knocking over the bowl onto Solas. He swore again – his Elvhen was excellent – and shouted to Dorian for more warm water, quickly, now!

It was heating, Dorian called back, be patient, it’s not like warm water came out of the faucet around here.

Solas moved, dripping rage, stalked out of the tent, back in again, bowl refilled.

Bull rumbled from behind her – that water was too cold, they couldn’t risk her hands refreezing.

Solas snapped something, rummaging in his pack, pulling out a small cloth bag. He opened it and her brows knit together in confusion.

Why was his bag _singing_?

A soft collection of songs, little muttering murmurs, one stacked on top of the other. His fingers pulled out a tiny hexagonal stone. It sang a faint, cheerful red, like the crackling of a fire with nice wood to eat. He closed the bag and crossed to her, cupping the little fire-song in his hands.

Then he looked at her, met her eyes, and slipped the song into the water.

And she could _feel_ it.

And it was _warm_.

The melody moved around her cold, dead skin, banishing the dread that had lodged like a splinter in her mind. The song was there, she could feel it, lovely and warm and –

and pain from her thawing skin shot up through her arm. Bull was ready for her shout, held her steady, held her hands in the water.

“Ow,” she said darkly.

“This will likely hurt a great deal,” Solas warned, stirring the water in the bowl. “We must thaw your hands at a constant rate, undo as much damage as we possibly can. It will not be pleasant.”

“Fun,” she spat. The sensation was not unlike pins and needles, amplified times a thousand, working from the outside in. The tiny song-stone brushed against her hands, making the mark flair, adding another distinct layer of pain.

She bit back a howl. “What is that, in the bowl?”

Solas hesitated only for a moment. “It is a small heating device. It will keep the water at a low, constant temperature.”

“Then why does the mark react like that?” she hissed, pain choking the words in her throat. “And why is it singing?”

Solas looked up abruptly, almost spilling the water again. “Singing?”

Then Dorian came in with a small kettle and a pile of clean clothes and they lost the conversation in an argument about water temperature and if they should change her out of her wet, freezing things before her hands thawed or after. Ellara didn’t listen, just bit her lip and tried to stop herself from jerking her hands out of the water.

Bull held her steady through it all, rock solid at her back. Solas, having won the quarrel, kept the water circulating. Dorian bustled around the tent – more a collection of threadbare sheets, she noticed – cursing softly to himself and laying out their bedrolls. Then he stopped, looked at her, and rearranged every blanket they had around her legs and torso until she was wrapped tighter than a new baby in swaddling.

It was strange. And kind of nice. She blinked her eyes – the tears obviously from the pain. Except that was lessening now, the nerve-shrieking shocks coming less and less often. Instead she lost herself in the soft movement of the water, the cheerful muttering of Solas’ little song-stone.

Her hands unclenched, and she let go of the last bit of dread she had been holding in her fists.

When he deemed it time, Solas dried her off carefully. His fingers were long and pale and did not shake – just soothed her skin with salve, wrapped each joint in soft rags, focusing intently on his task. Someone held something to her lips – pink and thick and bitter, a tonic made from spindleweed. Spindleweed! When every wet-inked da’len could tell you that elfroot–

elfroot…

The potion had more than spindleweed in it, she realized sleepily.

Her mind slowed, pain fading.

But she felt long fingers brush the hair from her forehead before she fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying the ride so far! The plan is to update weekly on Mondays, so please stay tuned for more of these dorks. You can find me on tumblr at commonevilmastermind for general stuff, and elvhen-inquisition for fic. Which, you know, you should. Especially if you also have Solavellan feelings.


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